Quantum entanglement

[Emily Littleton] It's a rainy night in the Windy City. Fat drops fall from the overcast firmament. The same clouds cast back the orange-grey reflection of city lights, ghastly and sick-pale in lieu of the half-moon's light. It's not a fair trade; it does paint her pretty, this City, and the City needs all the help it can get. The rain falls down, runs in rivulets off windowpanes and parked cars, it sweeps away the top layer of black soot-grime and puddles it all in oily slicks on the streets. It puddles up on the walkways of Grant Park. It dampens everyone's pant hems. Slicks every last step.

Emily comes here to be apart but not away; to leave the sound of tires on pavement just beyond the edge of hearing, to let the cacophony of intermingled conversations simmer down to a murmur, to let her footfalls be the broadest cadence that drives her for a moment. Just for a moment. There are puddles on the path and indeed the hems of her dark pantlegs are wet and mussed. The spiral of her hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck, has birthed a crown of small ringlets. Haphazard things, wayward. She's carrying an umbrella, but just now there is not enough precipitation to warrant it so she swings it idly in one hand as she walks.

A street light flickers; inconstant; unreliable. Tree leaves rustle on the breeze. The promise of more rain bates every breath, every last moment is heavy with it. She pays this no mind, or perhaps it no longer bothers her.

She's a slight figure, tall but casting only a thin shadow along the pathway. She's also alone.

[Terence Wilson] This other figure too is tall, slight. Dressed completely in black save for a single item down the front, a tie in a very cool hue of navy blue. As always he's the cock of the walk, this brand new (to this particular spot, which to the individual in question is of very, very little consequence) mage in his brand new city seems content simply to play with his brand new toy.

Many parts of that are a lie.
Misinformation is disinformation-
or that's what they'd lie you to think.

The Coder's stride brings him directly into the path of something....something. That is very much like prayer, real honest to God down-on-one's-knees prayer. Free of ego, of complication or want [Disgusting]. And it won't stop. It's like prayers on tape [Brainwashing.] or even the creeping feeling brought on by footage of millions at the feet of men who inspire awe amongst those the propagandize themselves to.

Oh this is going to be fun.

"Got a light, love?" Walking stops. There's no visible evidence of a cigarette.

[Emily Littleton] And when we say she's tall we mean five-nine, barefoot and standing simply, but tonight there's a click behind each footstep, a heel to her low boots that raises her up to five-eleven. Nearly eye to eye with many of the men she knows. Nowhere near eye-to-eye with the Singer she's missing. And, yes, there's a quiet sense of Grace to her, but it's a low thrum, an accent more than a defining characteristic -- there's also a push, a drive, a relentlessness that is neither gentle nor contented.

But he is a riddle, this tall man, this straw man, this shadow on a dark and stormy night. He's a thing that bends, that breaks, that touches the brain just so. He is a conundrum, a thing that does fit. The thing that doesn't fit. Counter-intuitive (Insurgent).

He pushes; she pushes; their resonances run up against each other even before he's close enough to ask --

Got a light, love?

And the Singer says, "Sure. Just a moment..." and digs a hand into the pocket of the lightweight leather jacket she wears. It's still crisp at the collar, at the cuffs, not yet entirely broken in. It smells clean, yet. She doesn't smell of smoke; it doesn't wreathe her, no miasma crowning, no hallmarks of quiet disobedience.

Emily offers him a lighter that is not often used. "Here," she says. Her voice is a muddle of clipped consonants and far away vowels. It is neither here nor now. The clearest note is British, strong but not true. Touched through with many other notes, it gives him little cue of what she is, who she is, beyond this: Other.

Her eyes are dark, clear and sharp as they meet his. He cannot tell in this low light if they are brown or blue or black. Only dark. Intent (intense) and unyielding.

[Terence Wilson] And a Brit.
Oh this could not possibly get better.

"I meant," This man, hair shorn to the point where his bald scalp nearly shines, his odd bearing putting shoulders back and head high like some sort of idol chuckles. "I meant on the inside." His accent is Scottish, and quite lower class. Another striking difference from the rest of his outward appearance. His suit cost more than many might wish to spend on a season's wardrobe however he shows none of the other acessories that might come with money. No watch, no rings or especially shiny gemstoned cufflinks (nay. these are simple and black. Obsidian if one looks close enough at the sleeves.)

"Y'ken?"

That he's three or four inches taller than her says nothing of her rather impressive poise. When she does indeed stand near eye to eye with him, holding out the lighter he lazily lets one foot drift back slightly and repositions his weight a bit more evenly.

Either giving space or gaining it.
Does it matter?
Is there even such a thing?

"Another expat, man." This, to the most important man in the park in a fast almost indecipherable Glasgwegian.

That's himself. If you'd wondered.

[Emily Littleton] She palms the lighter and puts it away, as he's not asking after quite what she thought. Emily takes a moment, then, to study him a bit more carefully. There's nothing rude about it; she doesn't pry. If anything, a slow but warming smile spreads across her features.

"Yeah. I ken," she says, thoughtfully. There's a measured cadence there, but a softness to it, too. He repositions, but she stays where her footsteps had drawn up, stopped. She does not retreat or move forward into the space.

Giving space, gaining space, is there truly a difference between them?

Her attire is simple fare. Dark jeans, a cream colored sweater, that leather jacket. Emily shifts the umbrella from one hand to the other, placing it distal from their conversation (convocation).

"Quite a night for a walkabout," she observes idly, but that comment invites. It's an opening. A little line drawn so they might both step over it and into something broader, or shy away from it and go about their business as before.

"Are you from around here?" she asks, though his accent and hers speak to nothing of the sort. There's a slightly wry cant to her smile, keeping the question from being pointedly deadpanned. This, too, invites but does not demand. It's the sort of easy idle chat one makes with strangers in the park. She seems quite calm, for all that she stands in the presence of the most important man in the park.

[Israel Cohen] In another world and another time, Israel Cohen would likely be easily overlooked. She is not stunningly beautiful, nor hard on the eyes, as the saying goes. There is little in her mundane nature that would ever demand to be the centre of attention outside of intimate relations; by which we mean one-on-one relationships and small groups; intimate, we say, and we mean small, close, confidences and intricate dynamics. Had she never Awakened it is entirely possible she'd have lived the life of a bibliophile, studying archaic, esoteric lore; symbols; a quiet expert on the matter sought up by the small percentage of people in this world who have need of such knowledge; of verification. Once upon a time the most attention she ever drew was a passing glance that lingered just a moment and said: So small; so delicate built - a strong gust of wind might sweep her away and this is a Windy city.

But she did Awaken. Awakened and Blinded all of the same moment. And slowly; in increments and in sweeping tsunamis, the almost painfully shy, almost harmfully softhearted woman she was was forced along a path she wasn't sure she ever wanted.

The long white guide cane taps a path ahead of her: That draws attention now. It sets a rhythmic staccato to precede her, pronounced only because the night - the here and now - is relatively quiet in the shade of rain-dampened trees; green-wet smells in her nose and the relative rarity of night insect noises to lend a strange string ensemble to the greater symphony of the city that surrounds the edges of the expansive park.

And there is the feel of her, pronounced to the point where Sleepers truly begin to notice it. Anonimity dampened away [and no going back]. Up until quite recently this finespun breath of a woman was possessed of the greatest measure of Resonance in the city so far as it's Traditionalist and Mystic members went. Humming around her; the bittersweet ache of Sorrow; warmed only by a flickering-but-undying measure of Hope and the cohesion of Piercing steadiness to give focus. Purpose. Meaningful though it might be only to herself: that differences between drowning in lamentations felt too keenly and using it as a driving factor towards healing.

The white of the cane gleams first.
Then the light olive-kissed skin of face and lower arms, revealed from the pushed up sleeves of a form-complimenting cowl-necked jumper; dark coloured, hints of current wine in pacing, flickering lights. Trim and tailored black slacks and then the bright-blue sheen of a bag from a baby boutique not too far away. Heeled boots that push her height to all of the sweeping majesty of...
...5'2.
A good four inches there.

Her eyes are closed, but that is hardly relevant.
It's the sound of voices in quiet conversation - one male, one female - that tells her others occupy the path up ahead.

-------------
[[How perceptive are we tonight? Eh? Per+Aware.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Terence Wilson] "Yeah," He looks at the area about him quickly Bedlam's shoulders turn this way and that in sweeping arcs. [This is exactly where i'm from. Don't you see?] "I've also a right fat wife an' love a cheeseburger twice a day." Hands drop to pockets and a grin that's nothing short of downright evil spreads in a manner that manages affability.

Eye contact is never once broken. It's disconcerting to some, the way he does that, just keeps staring no matter if the subject might stop. Like he's looking for something or worse, perhaps he's found something and is simply making calculations as to it's exact nature.

Calculating you.

Whether the devil is something that happens to a person or whether it's something invited in doesn't matter. Only that it appreciates the air. "Let's walk love, we'll talk about what a wee brit girl is doing so far off her side of th'globe."

Maybe then, [taptap] it does [taptap] matter. Only the [taptap] not knowing [taptap] will get [taptap] you [taptap] into trouble.

Whoa.

I know you but you don't know me.

The look turns away from one and up to the other, the one on approach. [Interloper?] "That's no cripple." Forbid his tongue not, for it is free. And again a gaze does it's best to simply read unblinking a plethora of new information.

[Emily Littleton] He says he's from around here, when he's obviously not. It draws a bemused look across Emily's face -- and, by the by, she's anything but backing down from the unbroken stare; she doesn't even seem discomfited by it -- that curls her mouth a little more wryly in its place. This is a familiar expression, one she wears easily. It's broken in, see? Well worn. Natural. Unfeigned.

Seemingly unfeigned. Not that he'd know the difference.

But when he mentions his fat wife and two cheeseburgers her eyebrows loft in unspoken question, then settle shortly thereafter. Now her carriage shifts a little, still easy and unfettered, but perhaps it incidentally places a little more distance between then -- and hand's breadth, nothing more. It's hard to tell. A subtle thing. Not worth remarking upon. She how she shifts the point of her umbrella on the ground to cover, to distract? Sleight of hand? We prefer prestidigitation (sounds more impressive [pedantic]), but that's not it either.

He's exactly too far, now, to reach and touch her without meaning to. Without making an overt moment of it. It's a caution, subtly rendered, without any indication that it's even intentional, thoughtful, mindful (it's cleverly calculated, in truth).

"Perhaps you'll tell me, too, about your wife and cheeseburgers." A suggestion, a little slip that says I'll take you at your word when she is anything but that gullible (trusting). It's pared with a knowing smile that gives nothing away.

[taptap

Her gaze cuts away for a moment and down the path toward Israel. There is a flicker of recognition in her features and a smile that warms a bit toward something truer: respect, appreciation, fondness.

When she is close enough to know them by their presence alone, Emily's voice reaches out to the smaller woman with a pleasant: "Good evening."

She doesn't give away the other woman's name in her hellos. She hasn't yet offered up her own. It wouldn't be polite. Emily is nothing, tonight, if not polite.

[Israel Cohen] Her eyes are, yes, broken things. No, they don't look it in the slightest, but broken all the same. Did eyes act as two-way mirrors, then hers only function for the benefit of others: They served to reveal thoughts and emotions; surprise, arousal, frustration, compassion... any number of things any number of ways. But no visage of the outside world is given to her.
Her eyes are broken things.
The other senses, though: Like most independent, fully functioning persons of similar disability, she puts just that much more effort into paying attention to the cues given all the other four, compensating senses to make up for the lack of the one human beings depend on the most.
Which might help explain why her awareness is - sometimes - [when fate or fortune or providence or sheer coincidence should have it] downright uncanny.

...and there's nothing wrong with her ears either.
That's no cripple.
A blink; a quirk of her lips [was that up or down?]: A little taken aback, a little curious, a little wary, a little... a little of a lot of things. A cant of her head like a small sparrow; stopping her trek as the distance between them becomes negligible. But her ear tilts finally most towards the sound of Emily's voice [the sense, the feel, the knowledge of her presence and things that ring familiar in it] expression settling into softness; into resonating fondness.

"Hi there. A night for infectious wanderlust, is it?"

[Terence Wilson] "A laugh."

The infectious wanderlust of the mind. Not that it's a puzzle in how it's given. A question with a dissociated answer is sometimes just that. Or sometimes it's a sort of glass bead game played in the reverse, a little something in the way of insight to be had in the journey's reverse.

Sometimes it's just a laugh.

"Welcome to join us, miss..." Often times the punctuation of a person's speech does not translate precisely for transcription. The upward inflection followed by and omnidirectional vocalization toward multiple subjects is given neither to elipses nor to a question mark. It Is not properly codified in the language however it can be well understood by anyone in polite conversation.

It's a verbal hack. A piece of mundane programming executed intentionally to illicit a response, a particular one in fact.

Ping.

[Emily Littleton] It must be a relief for Israel to find the girl, at last, untouched by the journey into the underground, the death place, the place of madness, caul-walkers all of them, Minotaurs and Midas-touched. The wrongness of the Labyrinth no longer crawls along her resonance, no longer dances on her skin. It's been a long while, for all of them, but the Singer does carry an unseen hurt forward (not the sort the body might bear). There is no pain to shape her breath, no smells of sickness or medicine, no subtle cues for Israel the unseeing but ever acute to notice.

She is hale, she is whole enough. It is an improvement.

There's a little mirth to her voice when she answers the query. Easily. Languidly. Words that fall like water drops, rain drops, puddles of sound without a deepening intent: "Oh, you know me."

She can imagine the small gesture Emily makes with her hand, here. Dismissive but not curt. He doesn't have to imagine; he can see it plainly.

"Never could sit still for long."

There's a verbal hack that pings her social firewall and Emily looks over with a little surprise (feigned, but socially appropriate). "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name before."

Ping. (Returns: Polite smile. Parsing. Translation: Oh, no. You first, dear.)

The statement trends upward. It is, indeed, a question. It is also an indication to Israel that the third party is an unknown, however he resonates. Perhaps there is, too, a little resistance to being hacked -- socially or otherwise. Occupational hazard; geeks and their firewalls.

[Isabel Burrows] She's three bags deep into her shopping trip this evening when she decides that.. enough, is enough. Or rather, she'd spent enough money. The car, however - was left on the opposite side of the park, where she stopped this morning for a lovely scone and some tea.

The dark haired woman was dressed nicely for such a trip - heels, a knee length black skirt, a soft pink button up blouse, a strand of pearls and perfectly done hair (must use a lot of hairspray..). Steadly enough, the sound of her heels along the path heralded her arrival.

She spoke in a lightly accented voice into the phone she held up to her ear (she hated those headsets, it made it look like you were talking it yourself). The tone was easy, carefree. Something about a recent trip home.

There was nothing remarkably special about her.. save for the very, very subtle aura she radiated that indicated that yes, she might be a mabe. But don't ask her about it - she's sure to deny it.

[Israel Cohen] In the light [flicker-flicker though it does; washed-out yellow; a humming buzz. it's the sound that gives Israel indication; the light means nothing [but, ah, everything]] where seeing eyes can better make out small details; Emily has the prior knowledge of the woman to see that she seems.. thinner? Less well rested. Oh, not haggard, no. Not emaciated; not maudlin or in dire straights. But the fact that any such amount of prolonged strain [grief. uncertainty. the pondering of questions no amount of Disciple knowledge of Mind makes any easier, in the end] shows through in a woman quite skills in many forms of Healing... well, perhaps that says something in and of itself.

There are smiles, then. Quiet things; reserved but attentive things. Catching the by-play though she doesn't even remotely think of it in the same manner the unknown man and Emily do. But words are but Concepts and those - yes, those she understand very well. So there is a subtle interest; subtle not because of subterfuge, subtle because there is that whisper of fatigue. Senses sharp but processes heavy-laden with a tangle skein of all the other shambles still left to lay-hands to with slow [wincing] patience.

"Mmmm.... well, it's the light in motion that catches the most attention." To Emily. As to these greetings; these strategic little thrusts and parries; sly dances without mal intent. She has nothing to say there, recognizing the cues Emily gives and letting the other woman set the tenure: After all, it was the Singer [Orphan no longer. Not that Israel ever really thought of Emily as an Orphan, not at the core of her.] who initially attracted the attention of this new...
...moth.

But there's a fractional shift then; redistribution of weight; speaking of being able to handle herself in many ways, so at odds with how she looks; again the slightest turn of her head - ear leading the way - towards the direction a young woman walks, talking into a phone and the word she speaks next...
"Convergence." Hints of wry bemusement there; a maybe a code of her own for Emily's sake in case the other woman hasn't picked up on the thrum of Enlightened vitality in the man and even the next unknown [to Israel] factor making its way closer. "Maybe only the sleepers are asleep tonight."

[Emily Littleton] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Terence Wilson] [Let me do that too.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Isabel Burrows] {Oh.. alright, I'll play too}
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 5, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Terence Wilson] Quantum entaglement.
That's how he'd described it before. Another of this city's Awakened populace suggested to him over a week ago the term confluence. The word rolls over and over and about in his head as yet one more joins the party. Well, not so much as she knows yet bu it's only a matter of space and what's space?

[spatial position minus the speed of light minus temporal position.]
That isn't the point.

"Bedlam," the Scot replies. "Lord Bedlam." Then no sooner than he's spoken a name, a nomme de plume, really; the blind woman speaks to the idea that's only just being reprocessed. "Quantum entanglement," comes the amused reply.

"Now the question is if we stop observing her, will she disappear?" Beat. "Because that would be a right dead shame. I don't want to be responsible for blinking someone else out of existence. We should go have a chat." As though just like that it's decided. One is easily more powerful than him, the other feels like the fourth bead of a rosary that loops again and again onto itself and this one just seems to try and lead them regardless.

Without knowing.
Or being known.

"Hey!" He waves to the Magus in black and pink.
The one with the phone.
And the heels.

Oh sod off. A man has a pulse, even if he's tryin' to change the whole world he's got a pulse, right?

[Emily Littleton] Ah, yes, Convergence. Quantum Entanglement. Confluence. Happenstance. Coincidence. Fate. Emily knew a lot about these things. She knew how the magi of Chicago came to cluster, in small groups, in coffee houses, in parks, in places like this, before great Falls, after tragedies, in revelry, in solidarity, sometimes just to quarrel, sometimes just because.

There's something Subtle making its way toward them and Emily looks up, loses a bit of that easy edge to her stance in the sudden flicker of Awareness as she scouts for a Will she knows and hasn't done enough to foster. This comes in the middle of introductions, so, she is a bit belated as she replies.

"Emily." No surname. Not just yet. "Pleased to meet you." No sir, no Lord. It's not a slight, just a slight show of distraction. She glances at him, out of the corner of her eye, as he calls Isabel over. Emily exhales a little; it is a tight sound: cautious.

A little lower and toward the Disciple alone: "It's good to see you." Warmth. Concern, just a touch of it. Nothing too prying, too pressing. Just a human touch to it, much like a hand rested gently on a shoulder -- except not quite, for Emily has taken note of how it unsettles her, to be touched without a warning. So, of a similar affection without the alarming quality, her words are an olive branch, an opening, a invitation.

She's glanced over to Israel when she speaks to her, it's habit, ingrained. She doesn't think the other woman requires eye contact, but it would be rude of Emily not to look her in the face. To speak to her squarely. The voice carries differently; Israel would know. Now, though, her attention is back on the Apprentice. It is a watchful thing. Not unkind or unwelcoming, just alert.

Someone had felt that way about her, once. Someone had been watchful when she was new. (That Someone [variable] had not been the same person, from day to day, but the watchfulness was a constant.)

If the pretty mage in pink joins them, Emily's smile warms to welcome her. She nods a bit, makes eye contact for a moment. It is clear to Bedlam that Emily knows her, recognizes her perhaps even more than Israel. Also does not offer up her name for her. Polite. Still. (Ever. [Always?])

[Isabel Burrows] 'Hey!' It caught her attention. Green eyes flicked from the path - to the man who called out to her. An unknown man.. who.. upon further inspection, was standing beside a woman she knew fairly well. Today there was warning. No magical alarm that urged her to go the other way. This encounter couldn't be avoided, apparently.

There was an urge to roll her eyes (why does she always run into these types?), but it was resisted as she shifted her attention back to her phone. "No, no - I had a lovely time. I promise I'll come home again next month and after the lease is up here, who knows, I might move back. I know, I miss you too. I gotta go mum, tell dad I said hi.." With that, the phone was clicked closed and dropped into the expensive bag on her arm.

A small sigh escaped passed lightly hued lips.. before she forced a small smile for the group - the one she gave Emily was a little warmer, but still cautious.

She stopped several feet back, shifting her weight onto one hip. "Can I help you?" A simple question to the man who called her over.

[Israel Cohen] Lord Bedlam he says. Another might look askance with incredulity. Or perhaps a smirking twist of the mouth. Or laughter, pure and strong. Ah, or utterly blase; complete unperturbed, unmoved. No; her response is to absorb; fluidly. A stream, this, calm; quiet but with motion beneath that caresses and encompasses that which is comes into contact with. Envelopes and, for one moment, understands or at least takes note, before flowing downstream... and taking that new knowledge with it until each drop of it; each infinitesimal hint of the terrain through which it has moved is brought to the greater ocean beneath.
Lord Bedlam is dynamic and moving. Quizzical, unexpected and exuberant.
This she notices; this she keeps: But without brute force impact or pitting of one Will against the other.

Flow.

"I'm Israel." And, "Blink out of existence? Surely you know better," hushed and, in her own way, amiably teasing. "Nothing ceases to exist. A hidden weave still forms its place in the Pattern. A stitch removed will only find its place along some new seam."

Then attention jumps; moves; flurry. Restless.

Emily [poised. reverent.] takes the time for an aside; for words that offer warmest touch where her hand does not [maybe, just maybe, she can tell why it's word and not touch and appreciate, if nothing else, the consideration]. So it's Israel bridges the gap briefly; who reaches out a hand after shifting the guide cane to the hand whose arm hold the boutique bag at the crook of elbow -- reaches out through darkness and damp night air and wet-grass smells and autumn leaves turning and city-bustle all-around-but-secluded. Find Emily's... edge of hand, yes, there, forearm. Presses softly. "It's good to see you, too."
A beat, then, before politeness should dictate stepping away from more personal discourse.
"Solomon," Barest something just before - or just during? or just after? - the name is hush-murmured. There - brief but potent - then gone again, not even a heartbeat in length. "Told me the good news. I'm so happy for you." Simple words; words others might speak tritely. But the guilelessness witch which she whispers them somehow gives them greater depth.

And,
"Do you know the woman?"
Isabel she means, surely, though Israel could speak more on her Resonance than she could other details beyond a good hypothesis of gender.

[Terence Wilson] "Probably not, but I'd say it's worth a try then." Something wry in the way that comes out. "We're all just on a walkabout an' I say to myself-," for his amused tone his face gives away relatively little while he stares at the girl with the bags.

[Another Brit.]

A moment is taken, short but considered. Wheels turn and whole books are written in consideration of a single sentence. A stitch removed will only find it's place along some new seam. One. Two. Wait for it. Wait. Wait for-
it.
I like this one, and we're going to pick up that thread in a moment but first?

"Terry, that's what I call myself; if you don't ask that girl something completely ridiculous in the next twenty two seconds y'might never see her again." Still feigning at least a modicum of seriousness he finally cracks and allows the corners of his mouth to lift up slightly, to let his eyes soften, letting the light behind shine out in just the way one wouldn't expect.

"So if you lived your whole life to this point in a cave, seeing nothing but shadows from firelight on the wall and I told you about all this out here in the world. That there were motor cars and shopping malls and buildings so big you couldn't see the tops..."

Beat.
Wait.
Wait for-

it.


"Would you believe me then?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily's hand closes on Israel's. It's a warm thing, solidarity. It does not crush; does not cling. She is not as uncertain as she once was. Not so wide-eyed and incredulous (but the wonder remains [the awe] grace).

"Thank you."

A little pause.

"I've a new place," she says, quietly, a bit to the side still. "You should come over for tea some time." This invitation is a rare thing. Emily has had only two other magi to her place since she moved, and Solomon knows the building after he gave her a ride home once.

Emily is quite solid. She will not wink out of existence just because Lord Bedlam believes it. Her Will and her Faith anchor her; she is a tangible work of Creation, of Wonder; she is not that easy to wish away.

"It's good to see you, Isa," she says, a little louder so that her voice will carry across the gathering. Emily, who is not prone to pet names or affections, tenders this woman's nickname in a well-worn and authoritative way. She has earned it, the familiarity. It answers Israel's question: Yes, she knows this woman. Yes, she will stand up for her, too, if needs be.

"Mister Bedlam --" Again, side-stepping the title here. "I fear that may be the wrong tack. Miss Burrows is not fond of Awakened speculation or allegory." This is said lightly. It may be a jest; maybe just a polite ribbing save that the girl is so somber-calm tonight. Collected; sure. Certain. But the curl of her words and of her smile are paired. A lightly dissuading statement may be the best interpretation.

In this simple statement, she warns Isabel about the company she's keeping. It informs Israel. It may spare Bedlam the wrath of one Apprentice's temper or her indignation.

[Isabel Burrows] A brow rose slightly. The man went on.. and on.. and on - about something she just didn't understand. Did she care to understand? No, not really. Thus, she didn't ask for claification.

"Hello Emily. It has been awhile since we've seen each other.." The way she said it was friendly, polite - and if she really meant the sentiament that it implied 'we should see each other more often.'

Emily's explaination of 'awakened speculation' just confirms her fears that this man who now rattles off at her - is indeed, one of those awakened that make her very sad to have joined the community. The question was - why couldn't she feel them herself? Not that she wanted to.. but there was nothing tonight. Quite odd. Perhaps her recent wish to just ingore it all was starting to come true.

[Israel Cohen] Curve of shapely lips [little pieces, taken apart, that make even relatively average seeming people have their moments - their highlights - of loveliness]; amicable, gracious amusement. Her hand, it should be noted, is markedly warm to the touch. Warm like they'd bathed in sunlight just seconds ago. Warm as a soothing compress; a hearth edge that beckons. This is new[er - new for Emily to note, at least] and noticeable. It gives credence to the idea that touch - that caring contact - can heal with all the wholeness of a mother's kiss. "I've a new place myself. We'll take it in turns, then. I'll bring the baklava to your place. You can bring the tea to mine. With recipes and canisters to mark the 'warming."

And, yes, This Lord Bedlam - this Terry - [those ears, we noted, are keen. her capacity for multiple layers of attentiveness as well, when she's on her mark] continues to spin and weave the energy of dynamic reasoning [which is to say there's a method to the madness] and it is absorbed again; marked and taken with some level of placid intrigue...

...but the hours is late and her mornings start quite early. There's a hesitation here -- not so long ago she'd be loathe to leave Emily alone with an unknown Magi. A firmness, a need to remind herself: Emily is no longer the new-eyed, sometimes overwhelmed, largely defenseless Apprentice she once was. Trust and respect play it's part.
"I need to be going..."
To the woman Emily called Isa: "I'm sorry to be so rude and run off," again, such words from most anyone else would seem little more than the lip service of etiquette and protocol. The small woman - obviously blind [her hazel gaze is settled, unfocused, somewhere to the right of Isabel's head - somehow slips real sincerity [soft regret] into her tone, delivered in a voice that's a finely breathy mezzo-soprano. "Maybe sometime Emily can reintroduce us? I'm Israel, by the way."

And, to the man, ear once more tilted towards him, "And maybe sometime we can talk more about the question of perceptions and reality some other time... the next convergence." Genial though small, her smile.
After all, they seem to happen all the time with their kind.

... then, after responses:
tap tap tap
precedes her path.

[Terence Wilson] "It's a name. It's not a title." A look is shot at Emily that is so sudden and fierce that it would strike a person dead if it were not gone so quickly in the way it says 'oh figure it out already'. "Fine, right. Ruin the fun man."

This only serves to turn his attention to Israel, another name as loaded as the one this man takes and for wholly different reasons. "The string can be cut. Then it's not a stitch anymore it's right garbage, isn't it?" Is what he's doing clear to the younger ones? It may or may not be, it's likely a non-integral factor. Something between.

Enlightenment is a road and not a staircase.
A wave with variable length.

Dynamism, and insurgence. The pushing aside of occupation in the ways they never expected. It would seem if this man allows Chicago to do with him what it wants he'll become it's tester. The one prodding for answers in the dark and searching for knowledge where there is nothing else to be found.

But one gets the impression he'd rather be the thorn in it's foot.

The parting question already given he offers Israel one more mystery. "I've got your number. I'll call sometime." Pleasant, that. Unexpectedly so. "I'd definitely like to have that talk."